


Hold me Lover (Like you used to)

by mynameisnotmac



Series: Hurtling through Time (Darling Please be Mine) [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forehead Touching, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sharing a Bed, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, get them out there boy, no beta we die a grammatical death, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23422957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnotmac/pseuds/mynameisnotmac
Summary: If you think destiny is going to let these two go their separate ways, you've got another thing coming.Jaskier meets Geralt again about five minutes after the season finale.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Hurtling through Time (Darling Please be Mine) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684915
Comments: 39
Kudos: 812
Collections: Best Geralt, Geralt/Jaskier Fics I can't stop thinking about





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Idk, I have a little world that's decently cannon compliant so I'm slowly getting it out of my brain and onto the internet. I love to take gruff things and soften them up. Enjoy!

There’s a word, right on the tip of Geralt’s tongue. He was just talking to someone, what was he saying? It’s all so hazy, Everything is uncomfortably warm and slow. Where is he? What’s he doing? He was doing something important, something was happening.

Finally, out of the fuzz, his sluggish mind picks out a name, Yennifer. Figures she’d be mixed up in whatever this was.

“Sorry, wrong guess on that one. Unfortunately, it’s just me you’ve got to contend with.” 

That voice, he knows that voice. His eyes open - when did he close his eyes? - to see a familiar but surprising face hovering above him. His heart skips, a moment that feels like an eternity in his slow rhythm, “Jaskier?” His own voice is even rougher than usual. Geralt tries to will himself to keep focus but everything is so heavy. “Am I dead?”

The question gets a breathy chuckle of surprise from the bard. He quirks his head to the side, eyebrows scrunching to meet in the middle. “Let me set this straight; In this scenario, you die, and naturally, I’m the first thing you see in the afterlife? Why Geralt, I’m almost flattered .” 

Geralt’s eyes slide shut again. “I don’t know if I would be. We both know the chances of me finding my way to heaven would be slim.”

“And there’s the Geralt I know.” It’s a phrase Jaskier has used hundreds of times over the years, but this time instead of the teasing fondness, it just sounds tired and cool. “Anyway, you’re not dead yet, although whatever tore at you sure is trying it’s damndest to get you in the grave it seems.”

Geralt’s brow creases as he fights the fog in his brain. “I treated the bite.”

“Maybe the one on your leg - although I wouldn’t have called it clean, even by your very liberal stretching of the word - but you left the rest of yourself to get nice and infected, and by the looks of it, they shredded you like a tender pork roast.”

Now that it’s been brought to his attention, Geralt can feel the festering claw marks down his torso and up his arms, including a particularly painful spot on his wrist where one of their sets of teeth must have grazed him. In his defense, the bite was so painful everything else seemed trivial in comparison. However, he’s having trouble conjuring up any audible words to defend himself. He can barely wonder where he is.

“In a house, a little ways off the main road.” Jaskier answers patiently. Apparently, he is able to wonder where he is-either that or Jaskier can actually read his mind like he always threatened he could. 

The house sounds vaguely familiar, but wasn’t he just in a forest? And Jaskier definitely wasn’t there, Jaskier hadn’t been around for the better part of the last six months. “How? And you… and CIRI” There’s a moment of clarity and Geralt bolts upright - or at least he attempts to until he meets shockingly strong hands against his shoulders.

Jaskier pushes Geralt back against the mattress, surprising them both when he succeeds in doing so. “Ciri, is outside playing with the merchant’s son, teaching him some game with bread, I don’t remember what it’s called. Anyways, she’s safe and so is Roach so I suggest you rest up. I know it’s not your strong suit, but the sooner you heal, the sooner you’ll be off and I’ll be out of your hair, which should please you.” 

Even in his hazy state, Geralt catches the way Jaskier’s voice sours at the end, and he takes his hands off Geralt’s shoulders, smoothing the fabric over the muscle as he does. But his face remains calm and he doesn’t move to get up so Geralt isn’t quite sure what to make of it all. 

In the end, he decides he’s too tired to try and to hack at the ivy growing on that particular wall and completely glosses over it. “Why are you here anyway?” He says instead, which only makes Jaskiers jaw set and he can physically see The Bard swallow his words. “Wait...that, came out wrong…” Geralt regroups, tries again. “I meant... how are you here? How did you find me?”

“Well, I didn’t find you so much as I stumbled into a very frantic girl on the path that leads through the forest. A girl who looked remarkably like a certain princess you and I once knew.”

“Why were you on the path?”

“Most people who aren’t you take the path when traveling. We can’t all go stomping through the brush like wild beasts.” 

Geralt furrows his brow. This was far too much talking for him. “Where were you going? Don’t you know there’s a battle? What the fuck were you thinking?”

Jaskier huffs as if the thought of a battle was merely a trifle to him. “There’s a war on everywhere in case you haven’t noticed, although it wouldn’t surprise me if you hadn’t, what with all that time you spend with your head up your ass,”

“Jaskier…”

“I was headed to the coast if you’re really so interested. If I could die anywhere, I might as well have sea mist on my face and sand between my toes when I go.” There’s a faraway look in his eyes for a second, but he soon shakes it off, bringing his gaze back to Geralt. “Anyhow, I was on my way when out from the trees runs Ciri, just all wound up and it didn’t help that I recognized who she was. She was more scared than I was the first time I saw a selkiemore, you remember how well that went what with the screaming and the fainting and all, couldn’t get a word out of her until I told her I was a friend of the white wolf. After that, she dragged me over to where you were laid flat out, nearly tore the sleeve off my jacket in the process too.” A light smile dances on Jaskier’s lips before it quickly fades. He fiddles with the tie of the bandage on Geralt’s forearm, leaving goosebumps on his fevered skin where knuckles gently brush the skin above it. “Thought you were dead when I first saw you. I mean I’ve seen you pretty rough, but gods Geralt, this one nearly had me.” He shudders at the memory, pulling his hand back. “But then the merchant and his wife came barreling in, and we loaded you up and brought you back here and that about brings us to now.”

Geralt does his best to take in all the information he’s been given. If he’s being honest, he cares less about the circumstances and more about the fact that Jaskier is here in front of him, but Geralt doesn’t want to be honest with himself at this moment. He hums, unable to draw up more words, which seems to suit Jaskier just fine. 

The silence that falls between them is stilted. He’s not used to the quiet around Jaskier. He feels like he should fill it, say something, which is an entirely new and terrible feeling to him. “I think this is the longest length you’ve ever gone without speaking at me.” Geralt says finally, half attempting a joke.

“What would you like me to say Geralt?”

The words are not said unkindly, but there’s something heavy behind them. Jaskier’s face is like a pond on a still day; nothing on the surface but Geralt isn’t sure what’s beneath. What would he have Jaskier say? I missed you? I forgive you? He’s never cared to hear that in the past, why should it matter now? “Because you’re not sure if it’s true this time.” The thought is more uncomfortable than any pain his wounds are causing him.

He’s lost in his own head for so long that it apparently concerns Jaskier about his fever; enough that he reaches out to press the backs of his fingers to Geralt’s forehead. Jaskier’s hands have always been cold, something that hasn’t seemed to have changed since the last time they saw each other. Geralt has a hard time resisting the urge to lean into the touch. It’s been a long while since someone has touched him gently without him paying coin for it. Jaskier still doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, eyes filled with something between pity and comfort. It gnaws at Geralt’s chest but he can’t tear his gaze away. “Look” The thought comes unbidden “The next time you open your eyes he’ll be gone again.” 

There’s a gasp at the door and when Geralt manages to tear himself away from Jaskier’s gaze he finds two children. Part of him feels like he’s been caught in a private moment, like he shouldn’t want people to walk in on this, but the other part of him is too tired to care.

The older boy remains in the doorway, warily eyeing the Witcher, but the small girl comes forward, unafraid. She kneels beside the bed and looks up at Jaskier, who gives an encouraging nod, and then to Geralt himself, fixing him with her wild stare. “You’re not going to die are you?” She asks. It’s less of a question and more of an order, and Geralt can see exactly the impact Calanthe had on the child.

The room falls slightly out of focus as he shakes his head. “Destiny has worked far too hard to bring us together for me to die this soon.” He tries to assure her. It’s hard to do when his eyes keep sliding shut. One of his hands rests open at his side and he feels Ciri slip her own tiny one into it. The image of a kitten pressing its paw up against the front leg of a mountain cat floats through his mind. Geralt can sense himself slipping back into the haze.

“He’ll be just fine.” He hears Jaskier say, as if from a long way off. There’s a splash and a dripping sound, followed by something cool and wet being held against his jawline. “Made of tougher stuff than dragon scales this guy is,” the thing comes to rest on his brow. “He just needs to rest, isn’t that right Geralt?”

Geralt isn’t sure if he hums out loud in agreement, but he’s sure Jaskier knows. He always does.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt doesn’t rest so much as fades in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day, which to be fair is closer than he usually gets. At one point he attempts to meditate, but his mind refuses to clear, dancing on the edge of nothing and everything important.

Every time he wakes, Jaskier is there, or no more than ten steps away. He checks the dressings, gives him the herbs from Geralt’s pack that he knows the uses of, manages to get water into him, being one of the few people Geralt lets boss him around, not that he’d ever own to it. He never has to voice what he needs, Jaskier just always seems to know. Geralt truly is beginning to suspect mind reading. He slides almost effortlessly back into Geralt’s life as if nothing had ever happened.

Except Jaskier doesn’t say a word all day. He doesn’t linger either. Yes, he’s there whenever Geralt stirs, but just as soon gone as he’s fixed whatever’s bothering the Witcher. It’s not at all like the patch jobs Jaskier performed in the past. It’s like touching the desert floor after it’s finished giving back its heat from the day. It’s still sand, it’s not rough, not in the slightest, but the all warmth has been drawn out of it.

Still, although his friend is acting like a shade of who he was, it settles something in Geralt’s chest as he hears the soft scuffle of Jaskier’s boots on the stairs. The door creaks and two pairs of feet pad through the frame and past him to the other bed. Geralt can feel a glowing set of eyes on him and he makes an effort to even out his breathing.

“Is it true he has no feelings?” Ciri asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “The merchant’s boy said Witcher’s are heartless.” 

Jaskier snorts. “Of all the lies told about him, that’s the biggest horse apple of them all.” There’s the rustling of covers as the two sit on the bed. “That man is annoyed far too often to have no feelings.”

There’s a pause. “Will he be terribly annoyed with me?”

“Of course not! You’re far too cute to be annoyed with, and you’ve both got scary magic eyes, so you’ll have something in common to talk about.” Geralt opens his eyes just a slit to see Ciri tucked into Jaskier’s side. She’s still staring at him warily. “Don’t worry,” Jaskier assures her “Geralt likes people, he just forgets.”

Ciri looks up at him. “Does he like you?”

Geralt’s vision is unfocused by his lashes, but he sees the smile on Jaskier’s face falter, “Maybe. He used to, I thought so anyway.” He brightens again. “But there’s no way he could not like you! Not with that button nose and all the sneaky knife tricks I’m sure your grandmother taught you if I knew her at all.”

Ciri’s gaze flashes back to him, features pinched at the mention of Calanthe. Geralt shuts his eyes at the sight. “He’s all I have left in the world, and I don’t even know him.”

His tone is gentler when he speaks again. “Well give it a day or two, I’m sure you’ll get on. He’s actually quite kind, under all the gruffness and...dirt. Just not exactly what you’d call a conversationalist. But he’ll be good to you I promise.” There’s more rustling of sheets. “Come now, into bed.”

Jaskier’s steps sound towards the door but pause at Ciri’s voice, “I remember you, you know, from a few of the feasts when I was young.” 

He hums, remembering. “It’s been quite a long while since I played in the royal court.”

“You played well.”

“Thank you little highness, that’s high praise .” Geralt can’t help but notice some of the warmth seeping back into Jaskier’s words.

“Do you still play?”

“Less and less these days as it happens.” 

“Hmm, well, your lute is still with you. Will you play something now?” His boots scuff against the floor. “Please?”

“How can I refuse the request of a princess?”

Jaskier goes to pick up his lute where it rests with the rest of his belongings and softly begins to tune it. After a moment he picks at the strings, plucking out quiet notes. It takes Geralt a bit to place it; the song was long dated even in his younger years. The melody is calm and it floats through the room as Jaskier paces, floorboards groaning ever so slightly beneath his feet. It has the desired effect, and soon Ciri’s movements still and her breaths are even. 

Lashes flutter open so Geralt can take in Jaskier. It’s not the same as when he used to play. Obviously from his tavern demeanor, which was overly flamboyant and not often pulled out unless he was on the job, but even from the more serene moments when it was just the two of them on the road. The joy’s gone out of his fingers. Geralt wishes his mind would still for one damn moment. “Been a while since I heard that one,” He says, finally alerting Jaskier that he’s not alone. 

His fingers pause on the strings. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Geralt shakes his head slightly. The movement leaves him dizzied. “That song is old, older than you, I'm pretty sure.”

Jaskier comes to the side of his bed and sits on the edge, resting his lute on the floor and tucking a leg up under himself. “Well, I was a professor of historical lyric and note at Oxenfurt.” He chuckles at Geralt’s befuddled stare. “What, did you think I just sat around and waited for you to find me? I had a life outside of following you around, or a small piece of one maybe. I tried a couple of times anyway.” There’s still a trace of kindness in his features and Geralt can’t help but relish in it, even though he knows it’s not for him. “How are you feeling?”

“Mmnph.”

“Eloquent as always.” Jaskier feels gently at Geralt’s cheekbone, frowning at the heat. Against his own will, Geralt’s head lolls into the touch. He must still be feeling kind because Jaskier indulges him, his touch lingering for a moment longer than needed.

He can’t tear his eyes off the Bard, “Why are you still here?”

“You need me.” It’s simply stated, and Geralt knows it’s a fact, but out of habit, he’s immediately on the defense.

“I don’t need anyone.”

He’s met with a laugh, “Sure I’ll remember that the next time you have to stand to take a piss.” Jaskier leans over to ring out the cloth sitting in a bowl on the nightstand. “I just figured you would hate being fussed over a little less if it was someone you knew.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s not about to admit he doesn’t hate it at all, not when it’s Jaskier holding the cloth to his neck and face.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your sights just as soon as the fever breaks.” It’s more of a threat than a promise to Geralt’s ears. A knot settles in his sternum.

“Hnm.”

Jaskier pulls him up against the headboard. “Here, take a little water.” He brings the cup to Geralt’s lips, focusing on the task at hand rather than the Witcher’s intense gaze

You’re being very nice to me.” He says after he’s drunk enough to satisfy Jaskier, who tilts his head to finally look him in the eye.

“I’m a very nice person Geralt, in case you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget.” The words stumble out of his mouth with uncharacteristic haste, leaving it gaping as they go. He wants to say more, he’s thought for months about what he’d say if he ever got the chance to face the Bard, but now that he's here, his head is empty. The annoying thoughts that have been nagging him all day are silent. Some help they are. He can’t get his mind to focus. Jaskier’s eyes are so blue and so tired, and his hands are so close to Geralt but not touching him. It’s so more distracting than the fever that's swirling its fingers around his thoughts. Where was he going with this?

While all of this is going on behind the Witcher’s furrowed brow, Jaskier is watching him patiently. “What is it Geralt?” Because he always knows when it's something.

“I want to know...I didn’t think...you...after what I...fuck...” The words won’t come, stuck in his throat. He knows he can’t be trusted with things he’s expected not to break.

Jaskier takes pity on him and strokes his cheek in an attempt to calm him. “You’re asking why I’m here after you stomped on my heart and flung it over a mountainside?” He carefully keeps his voice light. “Life would be quite unpleasant if I let every little heartbreak get in the way of living it.” He tucks a strand of ashen hair behind Geralt’s ear. “I bear you no ill will. Well, not anymore, perhaps a little at first. You did say some awful things, more awful than usual, which is a challenge you rose to truly, put your all into that one you did-“

“Jaskier,” He cringes at the memory like he has every day since the mountain.

The bard rights himself to his train of thought. “What I’m trying to say is; I’m not mad at you anymore.” 

The knot in Geralt’s chest loosens but the pressure remains. “Then why are you acting so strangely?”

“What do you mean?”

Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever spoken so much in his long life and to be quite honest, he might be running out of vocabulary. “Hm.” he finally settles on.

Jaskier isn’t satisfied, “That’s not an explanation. Come on Geralt, use your big boy words.”

He sighs, “Like, not Jaskier. Like a dark reflection in a looking glass. You’re only half here.”

The cheeky girn isn’t near as vibrant as it used to be but it stills Geralt’s heart again to see it. “Would you look at that, the Witcher’s got a way with words.”

“Jaskier...” His voice is starting to fade, and the warning rumbles beneath his ribs towards the end.

“Oh, hush I’m only teasing. I think I’m owed a little of that. Look, I may not be mad at you anymore, but I’m not looking to be hurt again. You asked me to be gone forever, for destiny to take me off your hands, and I can’t lie, it nearly fucking killed me. So forgive me if I’m not eagerly jumping with both feet into the fire. You asked me to stay away, I’m doing my best, given the circumstances.”

“Never stopped you.” It’s getting harder to keep up with the conversation, but if he keeps talking, Jaskier will stay, so he fights against the haze.

“You never meant it before. If you had actually wanted me gone I would have left. I pride myself in knowing people fairly well, I’ve made my coin off reading the room and giving people what they want. For all your grousing, I thought that underneath, well, maybe you were secretly glad of the company. But I suppose we all have off days or decades.” 

Despite his losing battle with lucidness, he hears the tightness of Jaskier’s voice. He hates to be the cause of it. Again. He wants to fix it, but he can’t wrap his head around just how to do that. “Hmmm.” He planned on saying more, but it got muddled somewhere behind his tongue. He reaches out and finds Jaskier’s thigh, warm and solid beneath his hand. He squeezes tightly, trying to convey what he means through touch

“Hmmm?”

“I...fuck. Too, too many words.”

Jaskier makes a gentle noise in the back of his throat, one sinks in and melts through Geralt like a balm. “yeah, that was lots of talking, you did well.” He checks Geralt’s forehead again, smoothing his hair back from his face in the process. His eyes drift shut. “It’s late, and you’re still worryingly feverish. Get some rest.”

Something snaps inside Geralt. Bright eyes are open immediately “No!”

Jaskier looks at him in confusion, “No? You’re exhausted, you need to sleep.”

Geralt’s hands begin to shake, and the rest of him soon follows. His body is freezing, rapid, unbearably fast-moving and uncontrollable. His mind can barely keep up but he’s got one thought flowing. “Can’t.”

“You can’t sleep?”

“Can’t sleep. Too afraid.”

Hands are pressing firmly against his shoulders, trying to steady him. Concern laces Jaskiers voice, “Geralt what are you talking about, you’re not afraid of anything, what’s wrong?”

“If I go to sleep you’ll leave.”

“What?”

“Please don’t leave”

“I’m won’t, I’m right here Geralt.”

“Don’t leave again.”

The hands snake down to grasp Geralt’s, who clings to them in what is probably the most un-witcher like fashion. “Geralt I told you, I’m right here. You have to settle, you’ll wake Ciri.”

“Stay...”

“You’re getting delirious.”

“I like you being here.”

Thumbs knead gently into his palms, and Geralt does his best to focus on the motion. “Definitely delirious.”

“Jaskier, on the mountain...” He can find the words, damn it, he’ll keep Jaskier here if it kills him.

“Shut up,” Jaskier tells him. It’s a firm order, but not harsh. “Tell me when you’re feeling better okay? You can say whatever you want once the fever breaks. Just rest for now. I know fighting Wyvern is less strenuous for you than this right now, and I know that you are trying. I see that I promise. But you need sleep, I’ll stay.” He waits until Geralt’s tremors have calmed and he’s laid back against the pillows before standing, “Don’t panic okay? I’m just grabbing something from my bag. I’m three steps away.” 

Jaskier returns with a familiar jar in hand. He cracks it open and an old floral scent washes over Geralt. “I don’t have much left, but here,” He dips his thumb into the oil and lightly runs it over the edge of Geralt’s cupid’s bow, right beneath his nose. Geralt inhales deeply, lower lip falling open and the pad of Jaskier’s thumb rests against it. The oil is bittersweet as it drips onto his tongue. There’s relief in the simple routine Jaskier has managed to carve out over the years. His eyelids are growing heavy again.

“I don’t know why I always get in the way of things I want,” the words come unbidden and slurred. It’s the fever mixed with how Jaskier’s effect on him simultaneously works him up and calms him down. “I always seem to be on the wrong path.” He blinks against sleep, and he’s not sure if it’s the haze blurring the edges of his vision or something damp along his lashline. “What if I lose sight of you again? Where am I going Jaskier? Do you know?”

Jaskier pours the last of the oil on his hands before taking Geralt’s face between them, surrounding him with lavender. Geralt is aware that no one else would dare come this close, not with such innocent intent. Concentrated comfort, pure in nature, and something he was unfamiliar with before Jaskier. He shames himself once again for what happened. But Jaskier is here now, even after all that, soft hands coaxing the tension out of him like it's just another night in the woods like Geralt hasn’t shattered him to pieces a hundred times over. “It doesn’t matter Geralt,” he massages beneath the hinge of his jaw, willing him to relax “Where would you possibly go, that I could not follow?” Geralt’s eyes finally fall closed. 

“Can you live with being parted from him again?” Are the last words his mind whispers before giving in to the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt pries his eyes open to the late morning light, filtering through the smudged glass of the window. He swallows, throat feeling as though it’s full of ash. It’s hot, too hot. There’s a line of heat along the side of his body. “Jask-” he manages to rasp out. 

He gets a sluggish pat from the hand resting on his shoulder, ingrained in the motion of comfort. “Yes, yes Geralt, I’m here, please sleep, please...” A tired voice mumbles, trailing off at the end. 

Looking up, Geralt is surprised to find not only Jaskier but Ciri pressed against him as well. Ciri sleeps soundly, tucked up and resting against Jaskier’s knees which are folded to the bard's chest. Jaskier himself seems to be somewhere between waking and dreaming, his eyes closed with his head resting on the arm holding his legs in place. His hand, however, continues to lazily caress his collar bone. Geralt reaches up for it, trying again. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes flutter open, slowly at first, but then he realizes who’s hand is covering his own and he’s up and alert like a man possessed. Relief floods his features. Ciri stirs against him at the commotion. “What’s happening?” 

A hand rests on Geralt’s sweat-soaked face, his neck, back to his face briefly before flitting away. “Wolf’s coming out of hibernation, that’s what’s happening.” 

Even though it feels like he just shoveled down spoonfuls of the remains of last night's fire, Geralt can’t help giving a low grumble “Wolves don’t hibernate.”

Any response Jaskier might have had is lost as Ciri glares at him, stare piercing and scared, despite Jaskier’s attempts to comfort her. “You told me you weren’t going to die.”

“Do I look dead to you?” He knows it's not soft like comfort should be, but it’s truthful at least.

Jaskier is up and gathering the pitcher from the nightstand. “Best you don’t answer that Ciri, he always looks like that.” he says, pouring out the last of the water and handing her the jug “Do us a favour and go fetch some fresh water? I imagine that even Geralt here can’t be comfortable in all that sweat.”

She does as she’s asked, walking backward out the door and glaring at Geralt the whole time, but she does it. When she’s out of the room, Jaskier pulls him up against the headboard. Geralt does his best to ignore the spots that dance across his vision; he’s drained, but thankful he at least feels lucid. 

Geralt is so thankful for the lukewarm water Jaskier brings to his lips he could almost smile - almost. He attempts to gulp it down, but it's pulled back before he can. “If you don’t pace yourself you’ll make yourself sick and I’m too fucking tired to clean that up Geralt, understood?” He nods and the cup is back under his nose.   
It’s hard to take measured sips he finds when the cup won’t stop knocking against his fucking teeth. Jaskier’s hands are shaking, he realizes. Jaskier's hands don’t shake, they never falter on a string, never waiver on a stitch, and Geralt should know, he’s sewn him up more times than he can remember. “Fuck!” A particularly pronounced tremor nearly chips his front tooth. “Jaskier stop.” He weakly pulls at Jaskier’s wrists. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing. Everything is fine Geralt.” Jaskier pulls on a tired smile that falls short of masking his clear exhaustion. “It was just a long night, I didn't get much sleep.” 

He looks at Jaskier clearly for the first time in seven months. His eyes are dull, face pale. There are lines, just little ones, but enough that it’s beginning to make him look his age. Geralt refuses to admit that his heart can break, but if he ever did, now would be the time for it. “I’m sorry.” he’s not quite sure exactly what he’s apologizing for, all of it maybe.

Jaskier’s smile is real this time; small, but genuine. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that.” He cups Geralt’s jaw tenderly, the way only Jaskier does. “It was hard last night, you were very...vocal. Far more than you are in waking that’s for sure.”

“I scared the girl.”

“She was worried about you.” Jaskier brings his other hand up to cradle Geralt’s face between them. “I was worried about you.” He hesitates for a moment, then ever so slowly, as if he were creeping to deer who might startle at any moment, drops his forehead to Geralt's. “I know what you said,” he murmurs, breath hot against Geralt’s cheek, “how you think you feel, but please allow me this one indulgence, this one kind thing to cover the sour taste of our last parting before I leave again.”

You’re holding a lit candle. the voice inside his head awakens. Be mindful of the flame, you’ve no more matches to relight it. Just as slowly as Jaskier, he reaches up, fingers tangling in the soft hairs at the base of the bard’s neck. He can smell the oils in it, a light burst of neroli mixed with the lavender still lingering on both their skin. Geralt holds his breath, afraid of breaking a moment so delicate. 

Eyelashes flutter against his lids. “Are you alright with this?” Jaskier whispers, “You’ve tensed. Is this too much for you? I’ll go if you need me too.”

Geralt forces the breath from his lungs, allows his rough hands to slide down, calluses catching across the day-old stubble of Jaskier’s jaw. “Stay.”

When Geralt wakes again the sun is lower in the sky and Jaskier is gone. He’d think it was a dream if the sweet fragrance of orange blossom didn’t still hang ever so lightly around him. He pulls himself up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, wounds and stiff muscles groaning in protest. Beside him on the little table is a fresh washbasin and some linens, along with his spare set of clothes, neatly folded in a way Geralt knows they weren’t at the bottom of his pack.

With some effort, he washes the stick of dried sweat off as best he can, and changes his shirt. The leather of his pants seems like too much of a hassle to try and peel off over his wounds, despite the fact that they’re torn almost fully open in places. With a grunt, he pulls himself off the bed and down towards the direction of voices.

Balancing mainly on one leg doesn’t exactly make for the most subtle of entrances and Geralt interrupts the conversation downstairs before he makes it more than halfway. Jaskier, who’d been chopping carrots and chatting animatedly with the merchant's wife, is on his feet in a flash and is by Geralt’s side before he can take another stumbling step. “Meleties tits Geralt, sit down before you fall down,” he mutters, straining under Geralt’s weight before pushing him into the closest chair at the table. 

The merchant’s wife, who’d been watching the ungraceful event unfold smiles over her shoulder at Geralt as she drops Jaskiers carrots into the pot. “Nice to see you up and about!” she says cheerily. Geralt hums in response.

“Don’t mind him,” Jaskier says, patting Geralt’s biceps from where he stands behind him. “He’s never been a chatty one.”

The woman smiles, fetching a pail from the corner of the table. “Well between you and my husband and myself, I’m sure we can talk enough to make up for him.” She waves, heading out the door, “I’m just gone to fetch some more water, supper shouldn’t be long now!”

Geralt’s muscles relax slightly at the exit of the stranger. Jaskier’s hands, which haven’t left Geralt's arms, come up to his shoulder and pull at the collar of his, checking one of the claw marks. “Hmmm.” 

“That’s my line.” Geralt mutters dryly. He knows without looking that the bard's lips have curled up ever so slightly. Jaskier’s hands wander from the fresh mark over to an older scar, just over the joint. “Don’t ask.” He says, “I don’t remember what happened.”

“I don’t have to ask, I was there.” Jaskier’s thumb brushes gently over the mark. “It was a griffon talon, just barely grazed you, but enough that I had to stitch it.” 

The response shocks him, although he knows it shouldn’t really. Jaskier had become quite good at sewing him up over the years. But even Geralt had lost track of which scar matched what story. But Jaskier, it seems, isn’t done remembering.

He gathers Geralt’s hair away from his neck, sending it tumbling over the opposite shoulder. “This one,” he says drawing his finger up the jagged line that disappeared into the witcher’s locks, “Is from those two hags, only we didn’t know there were two of them at the time, that’s how come one was able to get you in the back.” Jaskier’s hand slides forward now, under the shirt and resting just below his clavicle. “And this,” he says, voice quiet. “Is the first patch job I ever had to do.”

“Bandits.” Geralt whispers. He remembers this one. “About the sixth time I’d run into you.”

“On the way out of Temeria if I remember,” Jaskier adds. “I thought they’d gotten you in the heart. Scared the shit out of me.” His voice sours “I went to the river after I finished and cried for an hour.”

Something coils in Geralt’s chest. “Why?”

There’s a huff of a laugh behind him. “Why? Oh, I don’t know, the panic from almost being robbed, the fucking knife in my friend’s chest, the blood under my nails, who’s to say?” He rests his forehead on the crown of Geralt’s head. “You dense loaf of bread.” He mutters with cheeky exasperation before his voice softens once more. “I’ve cried so much for you over the years.”

The coil snaps, Geralt can almost feel the pop as it gives way to the rush of guilt. “I’m sorry.” Again, he’s not exactly sure just what he’s apologizing for; he doesn’t know where to start. “Fuck.” Because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Jaskier nods against him “I know you are. You always have been, in your own way.”

Geralt swallows thickly. He’s not going to cry but it sure feels like it for the first time in probably close to fifty years. “Jaskier,” He starts “On the mountain...I…”

“I know,” Jaskier says because he does. He always knows. “I wish it helped more.”

He brings his hand up to cover Jaskier’s, the thin fabric of his shirt feels like too thick a barrier. “I wish I was better,” He squeezes ever so lightly, “At words, at this.”

Jaskier’s breath is warm as he sighs, “Me too.” He sighs again before untangling himself from the witcher’s grasp. “Thank you for this, for trying.” He moves to sit beside him in the vacant chair. “It’s always better to part on a sweeter note.”

The grunt that escape’s Geralt’s lips comes as a surprise to him. “You’re still going to leave then.”

The bard shrugs. “You seem to be well on your way to mended, don’t see much of a use for me anymore.”

“You don’t want to come with us?”

“You haven’t asked.”

Geralt’s eyebrows knit together “Do you want to come?”

The nonexistent dirt beneath Jaskier’s fingernails is suddenly very interesting to him “Do you want me to come?”

There’s a growl from deep in Geralt’s chest “Damn it Jaskier! What do you want me to say?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, voice raising to match Geralt’s tone “What do I want you to say? I want you to say you want me to come! I want you to admit that maybe you enjoy my company sometimes! Gods Geralt, is it too much to want you to tell me you actually give a damn about me, even just once? Just one time!” He’s on his feet now “Everyone told me I was a fool, following you around all those years, and they were probably right. But I knew what I was doing, I knew how you were, and for twenty years I could deal with it, I could pick myself up from whatever corner you flung me into. You have my forgiveness for those years, and the mountain even, but fuck Geralt, I’m too old for all this!”

Slowly, Geralt rose to his feet to stand beside Jaskier, who stood staring at him with a feral look on his face, chest heaving. “You’re...not old.” 

He flings his arms up in the air, giving a humorless laugh. “I’m old enough that I’m too tired to do this for another twenty years. Hell, I can’t even do this for another twenty minutes.”

Burly hands on his bicep stop Jaskier from leaving as he tries to spin on his heel. “Jaskier.” He brings his other hand up, bracketing the bard between them. “I need you.” Jaskier scoffs, looking pointedly anywhere but Geralt “I... like you.” Jaskier still doesn't look at him but allows him to take a step closer. “I…Jaskier...” The words won’t come. He gives Jaskier a little shake so he finally looks up to see the last thing he expects-a scared witcher.

Jaskier takes Geralt’s face in his hands, jaw steady, eyes betraying what little hope is left in him “I need you to say Geralt.” He bites his lip, something Geralt can’t tear his eyes off. He’s always been a man of actions over words, so he throws caution to the wind and leans in.

It’s not a perfect kiss. It’s barely even a nice one. Jaskier still has his bottom lip under his teeth, and Geralt tastes like sweat and sickness but neither one pulls away, even when Geralt breaks the kiss. “I..care.” He says, not allowing his voice to be anything but his usual gruff baritone.

There are tears in Jaskier’s eyes and for a second Geralt thinks he’s gone and fucked everything up worse than before, but then he laughs, true and warm, ringing in Geralt’s ears and lifting the corners of his mouth ever so slightly. “I know you do.”


End file.
